a/n: for anon who requested it months ago im so sorry this took so long but i hope it was worth :^)
The blinking line on his blank document was laughing at him. He swore it was laughing at him and has been laughing at him for the past half an hour since he sat down and fired up the program. One word, backspace. Three words, backspace. One fucking sentence, he fucking backspaced. He let out a growl of frustration as he pushed back from his desk, rubbing his eyes as if the pain would clear up any part of his brain – preferably the one that didn’t make him sound like a five year old storybook. He might as well have typed “The wife is a sadist who accidentally killed her husband mid-fuck.”
Grabbing his robe, he quickly tugged it on and padded over to the kitchen to pour himself a blistering hot cup of coffee. His answering machine had picked up seven missed calls, probably from his editor cursing him out for missing his calls.
He couldn’t be bothered to listen to any of them or even handle his editor’s desire to tear him a new one when he was so tempted to do it himself. His last book had been published a few months ago. Usually, by the time one was stocked up on the shelves, he’d be working on the next as he cashed in whatever the latest one was making. However, with the last few miserable months, everything he printed looked like a shit stain on a piece of paper. Even his editor, who was down to his last string of patience, thought so.
Things used to come naturally to Namjoon. All the sophisticated whatnot, all the carefully intricate plots that wove themselves onto the blank pages in fabricated fiction. He didn’t know what happened to him. He’s never had a muse except for his own messed-up life so it wasn’t possible that (as what his readers and critics believed at least) his inspiration had evaporated into thin air.
Namjoon perhaps knew what had been happening, what he saw from three books away. But he wasn’t about to fucking admit it because that shit didn’t happen to the genius, versatile writer, Kim Namjoon. Whatever he wrote turned into gold, selling nearly as many copies as the holy Bible. If his jittery nerves wasn’t enough evidence of his problem, then the coffee cup shaking in his earthquake of a hand was. As the realization sank in, he was finally hit with the cold hard truth.
Because of recent light and the binding ritual most witches are doing Tr*mp supports are getting very violent towards us witches. Going as far as to threaten to kill us so here’s a glamour to protect you but please do not rely on it allow. If you feel in danger contact the police immediately or federal judge.
What you’ll Need
A small container that you can carry on you
A small amethyst or rose quartz
(optional) Cone shell
Vodka (if you have it)
A white and lavender candle
The ashes of the sigil pictured below
What To Do
Take the penny and put it in the container.
Put sea salt in then drip some lavender oil on top.
Next, take the Bay Leaf and peppermint leaves, crush them, and put them in the jar on top of the wet salt.
Burn the sigil (carefully) and put the ashes in now.
Take the cinnamon and add a pinch to the jar.
Pour a splash of vodka on top of the contents.
Seal the jar with the white wax followed by the lavender wax.
Chant “They cannot see I am a witch for their hate blinds them from seeing so.”
The cone shell acts as a charger for cone shells are shells of protection so when you need to recharge your glamour place that cone on top or near it. If you do not have a cone shell leave out in moonlight. Be safe out there.
“Watching someone genuinely say I’m going to change the world to better suit my needs as opposed to change myself to fit in with society is something that’s quite compelling. […] That place is safe in a theatre, in a book, its safe in fantasy and safe in the symbolic playing field of the mind. Soon as it becomes a real thing and the consequences are genuine, then it no longer has the same compulsion, no matter how charismatic that world is, these players are, or these key figures…”
Hufflepuff x Hufflepuff friendships: They’re waking up in glorious light, the gentle, tripping peace of the morning. They’re unexpected gestures, food or thoughts or blankets for the cold. They’re compliments, smiles turning skyward, thumbs dragged over soft skin, let me know you get home safe texts. They’re running through flower fields in the spring, hurricane petals fuelling runaway hearts, maps and compasses that always point back to home. They’re pulling you closer, letting you in, trusting you with your barely-there breath on their neck. They’re sun cracked smiles, flowers blooming in the palms of your hands. They’re eyes so soft they could be made of silk, kiss-bitten lips and cheeks made of roses. They’re the first easy breath after years of suffocation, knowing that whatever happens, you’re going to be okay because they’re beside you.
Hufflepuff x Gryffindor friendships: they’re blanket forts with secret passwords, a world built up from nothing. They’re laughter late at night, choked noises when you know you should be silent. They’re back to back, spinning, a wild desire to protect, to love, to have forever, not just today. They’re boxes overflowing with memories: cards and pressed flowers and lipsticks from first kisses you don’t really remember. They’re smiles wider than the sky, promising the universe if it means having each other: the sun, the stars, the flowers, the moon. They’re giddy, excitable, endless, maddening fun; the beauty of innocence embodied in the breath between your lungs. They’re hiding but always being found, secrets neither of you can keep. They’re falling asleep under a mountain of words- dreams and adventures and the promise of a better world tomorrow.
Hufflepuff x Ravenclaw friendships: they’re constellations made by far away stars, places you haven’t visited yet. They’re hiding in empty swimming pools, night spilled fracture lines, light reflected through a broken mirror. They’re staying up too late and waking up too early, weary yawns into knuckles and kisses pressed onto delicate palms. They’re smiles like spun sugar at breakfast, seeing the universe reflected in each other’s eyes, reading poetry from lips shaded pink. They’re gasping breaths when no one else can hear, hiding hurt no one else can see. They’re talking pain into silk, weaving misery into tapestries stained with desperate last words: I love you, I need you, why wasn’t I enough? They’re picking up pieces of each other and examining them, studying them, dusting them off and putting them together again. They’re arm in arm, skipping, dancing to a rhythm neither of you can hear yet. They’re reaching, reaching, stretching across the void, pulling back, pulling in, safe in each other’s arms.
Hufflepuff x Slytherin friendships: they’re knees pulled up to your chest, hushed whispers in the early morning. They’re a hand at the base of your spine, subtle touches, smiles, small and fleeting. They’re silence hanging through water, eyes closed, warm, gentle, calm, safe. They’re slamming books down, lightning cracking the sky, thunder rolling in your breath. They’re losing oxygen, hurricane hearts and lungs swimming with poetry. They’re still, so still, static thought made art on canvas skin. They’re pulling back, helping up, balancing on someone’s shoulders. They’re secret meetings in dusk-hushed corridors, tears when you can’t hold them in. They’re light crossing the sky in the early morning: possibilities pressed gently into the palm of your hand. They’re reaching for someone and knowing that they won’t let go- not unless you tell them to.